Late at night, I like to listen to the sounds that creep in through the cracks in the windows and walls. We tend to think we're insulated and safe, so secure from our neighbour and the outside things that slither and gallop, but on evenings like this...when the breeze slides around the house and the crickets sing, I know we're not. The slightest shift of material matter will send our walls crumbling down; if we are one thing, we are fragile.
I sent a deliciously girly email to a friend today, reverting to a shallowness I had not thought possible only yesterday, when I was self-righteous with study and deep journaling. Pen and paper, I used yesterday, because the keys did not fall under my fingers like they normally do, and my own frustration with myself pounded inside my head like the waves of a flood. So I wrote my story out, letting it drip from my fingers in clumsy word and thought, until I was spent and, in a way, euphoric.
The light flared, then faded.
And so today, reconciled to being human, my fingers fell on the keys and produced many emotions with almost as many smiles attached. One day of genius is--it must be--enough to survive the trek through the desert, living on oxygen and typing mediocrity.
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